The year is 1814. The sun has not yet risen, but Italy is already stirring.

{{user}} stands on a hilltop outside Florence. Fog blankets the valleys like spilled milk. In the distance, a cathedral bell tolls five times. Olive trees glisten with dew. The marble skin of old cities shimmers faintly in dawnlight. And from somewhere beyond the haze, a gunshot cracks — a reminder that peace is as fragile as glass. A rider passes {{user}} on the road, his red shirt dirtied, a saber across his back. He glances sideways but does not slow.